


The Dragon's Heart

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dragons, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magic, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: Fantasy AU, where Jim is a valiant knight off to fight a dragon, and Oswald is, well, Oswald.For Gobblepot Week 2018.Prompts: Heart, Bed SharingThe Gotham kingdom had it rough. First, there was the unexpected death of the king and queen, throwing the kingdom into turmoil and leaving barely teenage prince Bruce in charge of it all. Then there was the Arkham curse, and madmen started crawling out of every crack, attacking honest citizens of the realm, adding to the ever-present brigand problem. And now, to top it off, there was a dragon rampaging nearby, razing villages, killing hundreds of people. The court astrologist read the stars several times and concluded that the beast could only by pacified if offered a human heart, and not just any heart - the heart of the young prince.





	The Dragon's Heart

“You don’t have to do this,” Harvey looks at him, worry and fear in his eyes as he puts his hand on Jim’s arm.

“Yeah I do,” Jim replies. “Help me with that strap, will you?”

Harvey shakes his head and sinks to his knees, tightening the straps on Jim’s left greave while Jim works the right. Then he straightens up and looks Jim over as he puts on his brigandine.

“Don’t you think a cuirass would be better protection? Just think about the claws, Jim!”

“It takes five days to get there, Harvey. I’m not gonna be able to put it on right without help and I’m not riding for five days in that damn thing,” Jim shakes his head. He thought about it, he thought it all through. “At least this gives protection without hindering my movements.”

“Heavens, Jim! Just think about it! How many knights have fallen to that bloody monster? It doesn’t have to be you!”

Jim looks up at Harvey and pulls him into a half-hug. “I promised him, Harv. And I’ll keep my promise, whatever the cost.”

“Let me come with you, at least,” Harvey says desperately. “Double your chances.”

“No,” Jim shakes his head. Harvey’s his best friend, practically his brother, the only family he has now. He won’t risk him. “I don’t trust anyone here with the prince’s life, except you and Master Pennyworth. I know you’ll keep him safe. Promise me you will.”

“We will, Jim,” Harvey presses their foreheads together. “You just try to get back to us.”

Jim grins, breaking their contact. “I will.”

 

The Gotham kingdom had it rough. First, there was the unexpected death of the king and queen, throwing the kingdom into turmoil and leaving barely teenage prince Bruce in charge of it all. Then there was the Arkham curse, and madmen started crawling out of every crack, attacking honest citizens of the realm, adding to the ever-present brigand problem. And now, to top it off, there was a dragon rampaging nearby, razing villages, killing hundreds of people. The court astrologist read the stars several times and concluded that the beast could only by pacified if offered a human heart, and not just any heart - the heart of the young prince.

Jim was the first to volunteer, having long ago promised the prince he’d protect him, ever since the royal family took him in as their knight. They didn’t have to, he was just another soldier without a place in the world after another bloody war, but they showed him kindness, and welcomed him, and he swore fealty to the kingdom of Gotham and to the royal family in his gratitude. They were fond of him, and he respected them and loved them as his parents, and their death dealt him a severe blow. But he still had prince Bruce as his friend, and the prince was scared to lose him and he didn’t let him go fight that dragon, and Jim obeyed. Still, it gnawed at him. He swore to protect, and he wasn’t an oathbreaker.

And now, having lost so many knights to the monster, and the rumors of unrest among the people intensifying, more of them willing to sacrifice the prince… Jim couldn’t stay in the castle anymore. He was a good swordsman, true, having survived the wars, but he didn’t fancy himself better than the trained castle knights. He didn’t think they did something wrong, ending up dead because of a mistake, didn’t think he stood a chance when so many had fallen, but - he couldn’t let it continue, couldn’t let the prince get that close to death without doing something about it.

And that’s how he ends up on the horseback in his armour, shield on his back, sword at his side, riding north-east. The closer he gets, the more panicked the villagers are, and they look at him as if he’s already dead, avoiding to meet his eyes. Jim tries to gather some information, but it’s just scraps and pieces from survivors, and they’re contradictory and embellished with fear.

They say that the dragon is a massive beast, some say the size of a mountain, some say smaller, like a castle. They say it’s black and it has a crest on its head, that its claws are the size of a horse and its teeth are even bigger. They say it spits fire and poison all around, turning the trees and crops black and dead. They say it’s impossible to defeat, that even a hundred knights couldn’t take it, what could one do? They even superstitiously avoid taking his money and they only let him spend the night in their barns.

On the fifth day Jim gets closer to the mountain ridge the dragon inhabits. He ties his horse to a tree and continues on foot, planning to learn the lay of the land here, maybe get a glimpse of the beast to try and figure out how to defeat it. The ground is touched with frost here, solid but peppered with rocks and crevices. Bad footing, either for man or horse, Jim decides. He’ll have to lure the dragon away if faced with open confrontation, but open confrontation is bad news. Jim knows the knights are supposed to be honourable, facing their enemies upfront and everything. And if that was a man Jim wouldn’t even dream of doing it any other way. But it’s a beast, a vile monster set on taking away a person Jim loves, and if he has to sneak up on it and carve out its black heart to save Bruce, so be it. He can be a dishonourable knight as long as it means the prince lives.

Then Jim spots some movement in a cave, and ducks behind the rocks, peeking out cautiously. It’s the dragon.

And the stories he heard do not do it justice. Sure, the dragon is not nearly as big as a mountain, not even as a castle, but it’s agile, lithe, and elegant in its strength, clearly fast too, its neck long, its mouth big enough to snap Jim in half. It has leathery wings, which it shakes from time to time, as if something makes them uncomfortable, but Jim can’t make out what it is until he sees a cut in the left one. Then Jim notices that the dragon has a mangled right leg, and it limps when it makes a big enough step. Probably some of the other knights did manage to wound the beast. This could be an advantage.

The dragon suddenly looks straight at the rock Jim hides behind, the pupil of its green eye constricting, and Jim ducks and stills, trying to pretend to be a rock as well, completely unnoticeable, and he breathes soundlessly through his mouth.

There’s crackling of gravel and heavy steps - but moving away from Jim, back into the cave. Jim exhales and dares to peek out again, just in time to see the dragon’s tail disappearing in the darkness of the cave. Jim wipes his forehead, going limp behind the rock. It’s not like he was scared of the dragon, he steeled himself to fight it, but… you just can’t not be intimidated by something like that.

That decides it. It can only be a sneak attack, and even that doesn’t guarantee his success. But that also means he has to stake out the cave and take his time. He can’t possibly rush it and hope to slay the beast. Jim gets up slowly and walks back, engrossed in thoughts. He has to set up camp somewhere nearby, close enough to spy on the dragon, but discreet enough to not attract its attention. Somewhere enclosed too, to avoid it seeing his campfire, he can’t avoid lighting it, it’s too cold here.

Jim notices the steps behind him a moment too late, and he can’t pull out his sword in time, deflecting the blow with his gauntlet instead, which momentarily disables his left arm. Jim jumps back and unsheathes his sword, taking defensive stance. And he’s a good fighter, experienced, no use lying about it, but even he can’t take on four brigands at once. Jim charges the one in front of him, putting some distance between himself and the others, and deals him a blow on the shoulder, swirls to the right to deflect the saber of the brigand who tried to get behind him and slices his calf, making him collapse instantly, but the other two gang up and press him with a flurry of blows Jim can barely parry with just one arm, missing some cuts to his arms and sides. Jim struggles to distance himself, gain some advantage, but then his foot stumbles over a rock and he collapses, and what a pointless and miserable death it is, flashes through his mind just before darkness claims him.

 

Jim comes to his senses to the crackling of a fire in the hearth and rustling of a wind outside the window. His head hurts, his arms hurt, but he’s alive, surprisingly, and not crippled, which is more than he could expect after an ambush like that. He props himself on his elbows and looks around.

He’s in a small room of a wooden cottage, very warm and cozy, lying in a narrow bed under a fur blanket, in his undergarments, his wounds carefully bandaged. There is a big chair by the fire, a small stack of books on the floor beside it, a table further away, some flasks and parchments on it, and, on a chest by the door, there’s his armour. Jim leans back down, feeling tired. Whoever took care of him didn’t want him dead, or they could have just left him to the mercy of the brigands and the cold, not to mention the dragon.

Heavens. How would he even kill it now, wounded and weakened. Bruce is in danger, and Jim is so powerless to protect him. He shuts his eyes hard, refusing to spill tears. Self-pity won’t help either of them.

The door opens, startling Jim, and he sees a person enter, carrying pieces of firewood and a small pot. It’s a man, about Jim’s age or younger, black-haired, thin and bony. He wears a dark tunic and black robe that falls to his knees, simple clothes, but the fabric is too good to be a commoner’s attire. And he doesn’t look a commoner either, his face too dignified, his eyes too sharp, his back too straight. But then he sees Jim awake, and his face transforms completely with a radiant smile.

“Oh! You’ve come to,” he says in a pleasant voice, putting down the firewood and the pot by the fireplace, and making it jerkily to the bed. “You’ve had a nasty bump on your head, I was afraid you wouldn’t wake at all.”

Jim props himself up on his elbows again, trying to sit, and this time he manages to. He bows his head low.

“I gather you’re the one to thank for my rescue, kind sir,” he says politely, although Harvey always told him it sounds like sneering when Jim tries. Jim does his best to not let it to. “I am most profoundly grateful.”

“Oh, no need to be so formal, my friend,” the man waves his hand at him. “Please, raise your head. I only did what any decent person would have done.”

Jim lifts his face to look at his saviour, and he’s grateful, truly, but there are more pressing issues than gratitude.

“How long was I out, sir?” Jim asks, anxious. The man shakes his head.

“Only a day, my friend. And please, I implore you to forgo formalities. Call me Oswald,” he smiles again, and Jim somehow finds himself smiling back a little. “Now, what is your name?”

“Jim. Jim Gordon.”

“Ah,” Oswald says, pleased, pulling up a small stool to sit beside the bed. “Gotham’s chivalrous knight.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Jim asks, surprised, but then Oswald reaches out to touch his bandaged right arm right over the elbow, his eyes alarmed.

“This wound is the most troublesome,” he says to Jim in concern. “It keeps opening up at the slightest strain. I will have to redress it, my friend.”

Jim looks at his arm and true, the dressing is soaked through with red blood. Jim feels nauseous. Oswald gets up awkwardly and takes out a roll of bandages and a flat jar out of a small table by the bed. He sits back and peels the bloodied cloth from Jim’s arm carefully, his fingers cool and light against Jim’s skin.

“Please forgive me now, this is going to sting rather badly,” Oswald says with furrowed brow, as he opens the jar and takes some purplish ointment with his fingers. As soon as he touches the wound, sharp burning pain shoots through Jim’s whole arm and shoulder, and he grits his teeth as hard as he can, but some sound still escapes him, and Oswald looks at him with sympathy, instantly apologetic.

“You probably know what they say, the cure is worse than the disease, and I’m afraid this is exactly the case,” Oswald speaks softly, as Jim hisses through his teeth. “It acts fast however.”

“Good,” Jim grates. “How fast?”

“About three days for a gash this size,” Oswald says as he finishes applying the ointment and starts to wrap Jim’s arm with a clean bandage.

Jim shakes his head, and regrets it. “Too long,” he speaks, the pain still straining his voice.

“Are you in a particular hurry, Jim?” Oswald asks, looking at him sideways.

“I have to save the prince,” Jim replies, watching the man sharply. He will notice if his expression shifts, and learn if he can be trusted, or if he’s also one of those willing to sacrifice a child. Oswald just looks at him questioningly, and Jim calms down a little.

“I didn’t know the prince was in danger. But… I’m afraid I don’t understand, Jim. If you’re trying to save him, then why are you so far away from Castle Gotham?”

He finishes dressing up the wound and pats Jim’s arm lightly, straightening up on his stool.

“There. Should keep closed for a few hours.”

Jim glances at him, still wary.

“Thank you.”

“So why are you so far away, Jim? Please don’t tell me you’re some kind of vanguard for the war force.”

“What? No!” Jim exclaims. No war, please, they have had enough for a lifetime. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the dragon that far north.”

“Ah. That,” Oswald nods, a shadow coming over his face. Then he stands up and hobbles to the hearth, fussing over the pot and putting it over fire. “What about him and the prince?”

Jim clutches at the blanket in anger.

“They say the beast will leave us alone as long as we sacrifice the prince’s heart to it.”

His blood still boils at the thought. How could anyone even consider such a terrible thing? To kill another human, a child - a child! - to pacify the monster? What’s next, sacrificing newborns for better harvest? And Jim doesn’t have a lot of people he cares about, and he can’t lose yet another one.

“Oh,” he hears Oswald say in dismay. “That’s vile.”

And Jim looks at him, and sees the reflection of his own thoughts on Oswald’s thin face, and relaxes, releasing his grip on the blanket.

Oswald is alright.

 

They eat the soup Oswald made, a rich broth with chicken and potatoes and aromatic herbs, Jim trying his best to eat with his left hand, but even if it’s good enough to parry sword blows with the shield, it’s not deft enough for something small, like holding a spoon and not spilling the most of it on the way to his mouth. He frowns in aggravation, glancing at his right arm.

“You shouldn’t consider it, Jim,” Oswald says, noticing. “The more it rests the less liable the wound to open up again.”

He smiles then, mischievously, and Jim is once again surprised how much it changes Oswald’s face, making it boyish and pretty.

“I could feed you, if you want,” Oswald says, tilting his head to the side, like a bird. He takes a spoonful of soup and brings it to Jim’s mouth. “Say ‘ah’, Jim.”

And he’s making his face so serious now, but there’s twinkling in his eyes, so Jim smiles despite himself and opens his mouth for Oswald to feed him, gulps down the broth and bursts out laughing.

“This is ridiculous,” he says through fits of laughter. “I feel like a small chick!”

“Well, you’re about as helpless as one now,” Oswald laughs quietly with him. “Just drink it from the bowl.”

Jim sips the broth and tries his best to scoop vegetables and meat with the spoon. He feels full and content after, Oswald pouring him a cup of tea with mint, honey and chamomile, and settling in his chair by the fire with a cup of his own.

“How come you found me, Oswald?”Jim asks, leaning back into the pillow propping up his back. “I thought I was as good as dead with the way those brigands attacked me.

“I was out gathering herbs,” Oswald says quietly. “I came upon your scuffle just about when you fell. Then something spooked your horse bad enough it tore off its bridle and ran right into your attackers, trampling them and only sparing you by some miracle, no less. One of them managed to get away with your saddlebags though.” Oswald turns his face to the fire. “Then I dragged you here.”

“Oh,” Jim says, trying to imagine a slight man like Oswald try and drag someone heavy like him. “It must have been so difficult. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Please, Jim, don’t mention it. I couldn’t possibly leave a wounded person to die,” Oswald shakes his head slightly.

“Was that far? Are we far from the dragon’s ridge?” Perhaps Jim could spy on the beast after all, while his wounds heal.

“Not far, but it’s not far from the ridge either.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Jim asks then, concerned. After all, just one man alone here, such an easy prey for a hungry dragon, and no one would even know…

Oswald looks at him, his eyes serene and steady.

“No, Jim. I’m not afraid of monsters or beasts. In the end, the human is the worst beast of them all.”

And Jim cannot even argue with it, remembering what he’s seen during the wars, the Arkham curse… remembering citizens out there willing to kill the teenage prince.

 

Jim dozes off after, watching Oswald read a book quietly by the fire, the sight of it reminding him vaguely of home… His parents weren’t really readers, toiling away on their farm, and Jim had never fallen asleep watching them like that, by the fire, all of them too exhausted by the end of the day. But the feeling of being kept safe and cared for - that was similar, and Jim was relaxing despite his training and better judgement.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of Oswald making distressed whimpers in the chair. The man is fast asleep, but clearly plagued by nightmares, and Jim remembers how his mother soothed him when he was having bad dreams, too.

“Oswald?” Jim calls. “Oswald, wake up.”

But his words have no effect, Oswald still whimpering, and Jim somehow climbs out of bed and makes it to the chair, his bare feet cold on the wooden floor. He reaches out and shakes Oswald lightly on his shoulder. It feels so thin and small under Jim’s broad hand, and it must have been a gigantic task for him to carry Jim home, unconscious and uncooperative. He shakes him again, firmer.

Oswald opens his eyes slowly, blinking in confusion.

“You were having a nightmare,” Jim says gently.

“Oh,” Oswald sighs. “I’ve woken you up. I’m sorry.” He rubs his face. “Please, do not concern yourself with me further, Jim. Go to bed.”

“And what, leave you to sleep in the chair? That’s what gave you nightmares in the first place, I bet,” Jim tugs Oswald to stand up. “You’re coming with me.”

“Jim, it’s not wise. I might aggravate your wounds,” Oswald protests as Jim continues to tug him in the direction of the bed. “And it’s too small for the both of us!”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Jim says amiably. “I’m used to it anyway.”

“Absolutely not!” Oswald exclaims, horrified.

“Then it’s decided,” Jim grins and pulls the covers open. “Get in, and let’s go to sleep.”

Oswald looks at him, but Jim is not bound to give up, and so he sighs, takes off his robe and climbs into the bed, scooting as far to the other side as possible. Jim follows and covers them both with the heavy blanket.

The bed was barely enough for one, and with two people it’s decidedly cramped. Jim lies on his left side to not strain the wounded arm, and ends up face to face with Oswald, much closer than he expected to, much closer than with any other person since Barbara. Up close, a lot of little details catch his eye, like how soft Oswald’s hair is, and what fine cheekbones he has too, and that his eyes are a pretty greenish colour and it looks really nice when he smiles, laugh lines forming around his mouth. The smile is contagious and Jim ends up smiling back.

“Good night, Jim,” Oswald says quietly.

“Good night, Oswald,” Jim replies, closing his eyes.

 

When the morning comes, Jim awakes with his right arm draped possessively over Oswald’s shoulder, Oswald’s face buried in his neck, their legs entangled. It’s very hot, and at the same time greatly pleasant. Jim always loved cuddling with Barbara, the feeling of her body pressed close against his, almost melting into him, was something that brightened up his mood any time. Turns out he missed this body contact more than he thought. He probably should have made more of an effort to find someone after he lost Barbara to the Arkham curse, or he wouldn’t be so affected by the touch of a complete stranger, kind, nice, and his saviour, but a stranger still. But then Oswald mumbles something and presses his face even closer, his lips involuntarily brushing Jim’s neck, and Jim feels as if he was set ablaze. He shuts his eyes tight, overcome. His heartbeat races, his breath breaks, and somehow he ends up tightening his hold on Oswald, oh, and he wakes. Jim feels the tickling flutter of his eyelashes against his skin, and a small gasp, and then Oswald tries to distance himself.

Jim pretends to be awoken and removes his arm from Oswald to rub his eyes, and then pain shoots through it again. He winces and lets out a sound, sleep and arousal both gone.

“Oh, Jim. I told you,” he hears Oswald’s worried voice. “It opened up again.”

Jim sits up uneasily, and looks at his wound. The blood is seeping through, slowly but surely. Oswald climbs out of bed and takes out the jar again, and a new roll of cloth from the big table. He then sits back on the bed, reaching for the bandage, and peeling it off again.

Jim watches his hands work, so light and sure as if he was a skilled doctor, his eyes concerned and sharp. Some thought, some hint keeps haunting Jim, he knows what it is, but…

“You’re Baron Cobblepot, aren’t you?” Jim asks tentatively. “Once vassal of the Falcones realm?”

Oswald stills his hands and looks up at Jim with a strange expression.

Jim wasn’t involved in that mess, thankfully, but he knew of it, and of the outcomes. They said the Falcones weren’t like the other sovereigns, too steeped in crime, and they had links and strings to many other people in position of power in other kingdoms, ruling them from the shadows. They said even the Waynes of Gotham weren’t exempt from having to reckon with the Falcones. They said it all crumbled from within when countess Mooney tried to overtake the throne, they said she had help from Carmine Falcone’s alchemist, one baron Cobblepot, who made both poisons and cures and played his lords against each other to come out on top in the end. They said he was to be the next lord of the realm of criminals and lowlifes, they said he was cunning and treacherous and an upstart, and they spoke of him with fear… before the Arkham curse ravaged the lands, hitting the Falcones realm worst of all.

And before Jim was too weak to think about it, to really remember, but they also spoke of him as a genius who made a salve that could cure grievous wounds in mere days, and when you’re military you end up tracking things like these.

“You’re sharp,” Oswald says with a quiet smile. “Now brace yourself,” he continues, indicating the ointment.

Jim nods and grits his teeth, but the pain is still too much to withstand silently, burning through his muscles. Oswald looks at him with sympathy once again, his touch growing even lighter and it makes everything more bearable. Jim breathes heavily, the worst of it over, as Oswald carefully bandages his arm again.

“How did you know?” Oswald asks after, putting away the stained bandage and the jar.

“Your salve,” Jim says, his still voice rasping from the pain. “There’s only one like that in the realms.”

“Ah,” Oswald nods. “I suppose it is a giveaway.”

“Why are you here? One would think you’d be retaking your lands…”

“One would, indeed,” Oswald smiles. “Well, there are reasons for my distancing myself from the Falcones. Besides, I am originally from Gotham. I wanted to return home.”

Jim watches his face, darkened by some sad thoughts, and he’s sorry he brought it up. He didn’t need to know. After all, Oswald only showed him kindness, and Jim had learned it’s best to stay out of politics a long time ago. Harvey told him being friends with the prince didn’t exactly help it, but Jim mostly ignored him on this issue.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Jim apologizes awkwardly. Oswald glances at him and shakes his head.

“It’s alright, Jim,” he says.

He busies himself with breakfast then, some sandwiches to make it easier for Jim to eat with his left hand, and more mint tea. Jim watches him hobble about, putting away the dishes after, grateful and sheepish.

“I wish I could help you somehow, Oswald,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”

If he was healthy, there would be so much he could have done in gratitude. After all, Jim is strong and able, proud of it even, just a little. It doesn’t feel right, having to rely on another person to do all the housework.

“Chivalrous to the end, I see,” Oswald says in amusement. “But it’s alright, Jim, it’s no bother. Just focus on getting better.”

He walks to Jim then and puts his cool palm on his forehead. Jim loses ability to breathe somehow, arrested by the simple touch as if it was magic, and just watches Oswald’s contemplative face.

“At least it looks like your fever’s gone down,” Oswald says, pleased. “You were running a little hot in the morning.”

Oh Heavens, the morning. Jim remembers the way they were entwined and flushes to the roots of his hair, averting his eyes.

“Jim? You’re feverish again,” Oswald says, pursing his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Jim blurts. It really has been much too long since anyone touched him this gently.

“What are you sorry for, silly?” Oswald laughs at him a little, taking his hand away. “Fever is a sign you’re healing. It must be taking longer than I thought, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Jim says, relieved and awkward.

“I will have to go out now, Jim,” Oswald says then. “I’ll be gone for most of the day. There are some more sandwiches on the table in case you get hungry. Do try to rest.”

Jim nods and watches Oswald limp away with a satchel on his back. He relaxes into the bed then and dozes off for a while, but he’s soon woken up by the nature’s call.

It’s awfully difficult to put on your breeches and boots having to accommodate your dominant hand, but Jim manages somehow. It’s impossible to put on his gambeson though, so he walks out the door in his undershirt.

It’s a sunny day outside but still chilly, and Jim can’t help shivering in the wind. There’s a vegetable patch near the house, and a herb garden next to a small stream, neat and well-tended. The sight evokes memories of childhood again, and despite looking differently, this still feels like home, and Jim feels a pang in his chest that has nothing to do with his injuries.

After taking care of his bodily needs and washing up as best as he could in the cold water of the stream, Jim returns to the cottage. He doesn’t want to sleep anymore, and he walks about the room, looking at things.

Jim tries to read the parchments left on the table, but the writing there is messy, rushed, and peppered with words Jim can’t begin to understand, probably foreign language or magic spells - both equally out of Jim’s grasp. The flasks on the table are unmarked and Jim avoids touching them despite being curious. After all, this was the work of an alchemist who also dealt with poisons, who knew what these concoctions could do.

Jim sits in the chair by the hearth, the fire burning quietly, enough to warm the room. A book left by Oswald catches his eye, and it’s something foreign again, completely unintelligible, but some words and pictures let Jim make some sense. It’s a book about magical creatures, like manticores and basilisks, and - dragons. Oswald is reading about the dragons, the margins of the book covered in notes, the same rushed handwriting as in the parchments.

Jim takes a deep breath. He really must talk to Oswald about this, what if there are clues in the book on how to slay such beasts? What tremendous help that would be!

He lazes about after, eating the sandwiches and drinking tea, and he falls asleep in the chair, only coming awake when he hears a lock clicking open, followed by Oswald’s telling steps. Jim raises from the chair and turns to face him.

Oswald looks tired, pale, his face sharpened, and there’s snow in his hair, just beginning to thaw and turning to brilliant drops. Jim reaches for him, alarmed by his state, but Oswald straightens his back and smiles at Jim, and oh, he could never get enough of that, it seems, giddiness spreading through Jim’s whole body at the sight.

“Hello, Jim,” Oswald says, touching his hand in greetings. His fingers are cold. “How have you been?”

“Never mind me, Oswald, let’s get you warm at once,” Jim says in a rush, pushing him insistently to the chair.

Once Oswald settles there with a grateful sigh, Jim turns to the hearth and stokes the fire, making it burn hotter. He’s getting a hang on doing stuff with his left hand, huh. After some fumbling Jim also manages to put the kettle on, and he returns to Oswald, who’s stretching out his legs and rubbing his arms, trying to get warmer.

“I see your wound didn’t bleed today,” Oswald notes when Jim comes in front of him. His voice is tired as well, and there are lines in his face Jim never noticed earlier.

“Yeah, I was giving it as much rest as possible, as you advised,” Jim says, nodding. “There’s a sandwich left, do you want it?”

“Yes, please,” Oswald agrees gratefully, leaning back into the chair. “Just give me a moment, Jim, I’ll cook up some dinner in a bit,” he says when Jim brings him the plate.

Jim shakes his head. “It’s alright. Tell me what I can do to help.”

Oswald tries to talk him out of it but Jim is insistent, and so Oswald directs him to the pantry to get some salted meat and a bottle of wine, and spices; and Jim remembers that they had a dish like that on the day he, barely out of his teens, joined ranks of the count’s army as a trainee and was leaving his home the next day.

The meat boils in wine and the smell of cinnamon and cloves awakens his memories - his father’s callused hands gripping his, his mother’s warm hug and wet eyes, and words of blessings they bestowed upon him before saying goodbye. The count was a good commander, he led them on a successful campaign and Jim was gaining confidence and experience, getting more wins under his belt, and then the count was outmaneuvered, his troops scattered and defeated, his villages razed, and Jim never saw his parents again.

“Jim?” Oswald calls him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jim wants to shrug but remembers the wound and decides against it, ending up with a jerky movement of his head. “Just a memory.”

“Oh?” Oswald offers, interested, but not prying. Jim smiles at how polite and unusual that is, his fellow knights and soldiers never acting like that, always tactless and blunt and hungry for details.

“My parents. We dined on a stew like this when I saw them last,” Jim says, somewhat embarrassed to notice sorrow in his own voice.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Oswald says quietly, and Jim gets the feeling that he also shares a similar pain of loss. But Jim doesn’t know how to ask about it without hurting him, and so he stays silent.

“It was a long time ago,” he says.

They dine on the stew, and the taste is a bit different, and it’s good that way, Jim feels. He can focus on it being nutritious, helping him heal, not dwell on the memories of the past long gone. Oswald is quiet through the meal, pensieve, and only breaks out of it by the time they drink tea.

“I was looking through your books today, I hope you’re not mad,” Jim says then. Oswald shakes his head, smiling at him to continue. “I saw you were reading about dragons. Are there… are there any ways to kill one?”

Oswald stills, his smile lost, his face a frozen mask but there’s also fear in his eyes, just lurking there.

“Yes, Jim,” he replies slowly. “There are.”

“Oh, thank Heavens!” Jim breathes out in relief. He didn’t dare hope, the dragons being the pinnacle of the magical beasts, the beings of Elder magic, and so many lives lost to this one without any clues gained. He reaches out across the table and grabs Oswald’s hand, excited. “How? Please tell me, Oswald!”

“You’re set on saving the prince whatever the cost, right, Jim?” Oswald smiles at him again, crookedly. “The knights and dragons do go hand in hand in the stories and songs.”

Jim looks at him intently. Does he fear Jim going against the beast? He must be, after all he nurses him back to health just for Jim to ungratefully risk his life again in a battle with dire odds. He squeezes Oswald’s hand as if to say, hey, I’m alive so far, my chances not yet gone. Oswald’s gaze grows sharp then, and very sad, but in the end he nods, his face grave.

“There aren’t many chances, Jim. The dragons are covered in scales harder than metal, the swords slide off them and get blunt,” Oswald says, his hand slipping from Jim’s as he stands up and goes to fetch the book. He puts it on the table, and stands at Jim’s left side, pointing at the picture.

“Don’t bother going for the wings, it’s a waste of time because he will get you with his mouth or claws first. See here, behind the front leg, well, basically an armpit? This is where the scales are smaller and softer, to let the beast move. It is your best chance, Jim,” Oswald says then, looking at him seriously. “To get close enough to his side and drive your sword in as deep as you can. But you have to angle it just right, here, see?” He points to another part of the dragon. “His heart is there, beneath the wing joints. You will have to not only get to his side, but to thrust your sword upward. Maybe you will have to do more than one strike. He is a hardy beast.”

“I am one as well,” Jim grins up at Oswald, earning an amused twinkle of his eyes.

“About that, Jim. My salve does work miracles, but it still needs at least a day to heal your wound. So please don’t rush.”

“Alright,” Jim nods. If the count is merely a few more days, it’s probably still safe. He’d like to deal with the danger as soon as possible, to make certain it was gone for good, but he’d like to stay alive as well.

“I will have to apply it again, even if the wound is not bleeding,” Oswald says with regret. “It won’t be less painful, either, Jim, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Oswald,” Jim replies, and it is. It’s not pleasant, sure, but he can bear the pain if it means he’s getting better and stronger. And the fact that Oswald’s fingers are always so light and tender on his skin make him almost look forward to it.

Oswald moves away, readying the supplies, as Jim sits on the bed. He thinks about starting to unravel the bandage on his own, but that means less touches from Oswald, and the thought makes him sit still and patient until Oswald settles beside him. Something’s changed in him today, Jim notices, his geniality replaced by sadness and fatigue obvious even though Jim doesn’t know him all that well.

“Are you ready, Jim?” Oswald asks after inspecting the wound.

Jim nods, bracing himself, and Oswald proceeds, his touch feather-light and distracting. He watches Oswald’s concerned face, close, appreciating the delicate features. Oswald is pretty even without smiling, he thinks, but it makes him breathtaking.

“It doesn’t seem to affect you as much as before,” Oswald says, finishing with the bandage and rising to put the supplies away.

“Told you I’m a hardy beast,” Jim winks at him and Oswald lets out an involuntary laugh. It’s a nice sound, Jim decides. “I bet you’re tired though. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I can’t talk you out of it, can I, Jim?”

“Not unless you’re okay with me sleeping on the floor or in this chair of yours.”

“You need proper rest for you to succeed, Jim,” Oswald shakes his head. “I’m afraid lying in a cramped bed with me isn’t helping.”

“I was feeling quite rested in the morning though,” Jim grins. “So please stop fussing and come to bed.” He pats it for emphasis, and Oswald smiles again, that quiet little smile, and comes over. This time he sheds not only his robe, but his tunic and breeches as well, leaving only his undergarments, and he looks even thinner like that, if possible. Jim scoots to the side and pulls the covers up, allowing him to get in, before settling on his left side again.

He watches Oswald who’s lying on his back now, lost in thought, studying his profile. There’s something sharp and desperate in the lines of it and it tugs inexplicably at Jim’s heartstrings.

“Good night, Jim,” he says at last, turning away.

“Good night,” Jim replies quietly.

Time passes but he can’t fall asleep, and he keeps staring at Oswald’s nape. There’s a small scar on his skin right under the hairline, a thin white stripe, and Jim is fascinated, watching it, thinking how Oswald could have possibly received it. Then Oswald sighs and turns, essentially rolling right into Jim’s arms. Jim freezes, overwhelmed by the contact, by how well Oswald fits against him, and then Oswald moves, his thigh brushing against Jim’s crotch, and it’s impossible for Jim to hold the moan back.

“Oh!” Oswald exhales, coming awake, and tries to distance himself, but Jim’s arms are around him, holding him in place.

“Jim?” Oswald asks then in a small voice. “Are you awake?”

Jim hasn’t been more awake since forever, since Barbara, nothing else coming close to this, and the best of it is that Oswald is turned-on as well, Jim can feel it now with their proximity.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, his voice hoarse all of a sudden. “I am.”

“Please forgive me this, Jim. I… it has been a long time since I, well…” he almost stutters, and Jim sees his face growing hotter by the minute. The blush suits Oswald almost as well as a smile.

“Me too,” Jim says, tightening his embrace. “Oswald…”

“Can we… could we, probably?..”

“I don’t want to let go of you,” Jim blurts all of a sudden, and it’s true, it’s all true. “Please don’t ask me to.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of us helping each other out,” Oswald says, amused. “But if you’d rather cuddle…”

Jim can’t deal with the teasing in Oswald’s voice and the way he just had to press his thigh a bit harder into Jim, and so he reaches out to grab a hold of his chin and fits their mouths together. Oswald shivers and answers him with passion, his lips firm and hot on Jim’s, opening up, welcoming, and by the time Oswald slides his tongue across Jim’s lower lip, Jim is completely undone and shivering himself, his hands roaming all over Oswald as he rolls them to have Oswald on top of him. They’re grinding into each other now, too keyed up for any kind of coherence, and Jim reaches between them, freeing their cocks from confines of the braies and pumping them together. Oswald gasps against Jim’s mouth, arching his back, pressing closer, closer, and Jim feels so hot and tense, and then the stars are dancing before his eyes as he comes and Oswald follows, gripping at Jim’s arm so hard it’s bound to leave bruises.

They lay after, panting, Oswald hot on top of Jim, tracing lazy patterns on his shoulder. And Jim is not a teenager anymore, and it should’ve been over and done with once they both came, but Jim feels too aroused, too attracted, wanting more of Oswald’s sounds and tastes. He slides his left arm slowly over Oswald’s buttock, bony like the rest of him, but delightfully firm, and gives it a light pat. Oswald hums at this encouragingly, and Jim gives him another pat, firmer, and another.

Oswald gasps at this, lifting himself off Jim’s chest to look down at him mischievously, daring Jim to continue. Jim grins and takes him up on that, slapping the buttock in earnest now, his hand shaking Oswald with each hit and eliciting the sweetest of gasps and whimpers from him. Oswald is squirming on top of Jim, as if trying to get away, but sticking his rear out actually making it easier for Jim to reach, and the rhythm is steady, quick, and they’re both so hard again it almost hurts.

Jim slides his hand lower over the burning skin, caressing, and the contrasting touch makes Oswald moan out loud and press into Jim, who kisses his neck slowly, deliberately, sneaking small licks and bites and never getting enough of the taste. Jim’s fingers reach the opening, making Oswald jerk in surprise, and then their eyes meet, dark with passion.

“Can I?” Jim whispers, hopeful and scared both.

Oswald looks down at him, his mouth half-open, his eyes blazing. He nods. “Please.”

Jim feels light-headed then, as he helps Oswald remove his underwear; as he licks his fingers quickly and reaches between Oswald’s buttocks again. This time Oswald controls himself, trying not to jerk away as Jim probes his entrance carefully, pushing his finger in. It’s hot and tight inside, so tight Jim can barely hold back his excitement at the idea of actually sliding in there, and he works Oswald hurriedly, trying to stretch him enough before he comes again. Oswald keeps whimpering, squirming on Jim’s fingers, and he pushes Jim’s undershirt up to slide his hands over Jim’s broad chest, appreciating the muscles, the sensitivity of his nipples and the feeling of the skin.

“You too,” Jim rasps, nodding at Oswald’s shirt. Oswald looks shy, but Jim adds a third finger in, and so he bites his lip and takes the shirt off, flinging it aside. Oswald’s pale skin is flushed rosy, his chest smooth and narrow, his collarbones sticking out, delicate, and he looks almost like a bird. Jim lifts his head to give one of his small nipples a lick, and another one, and Oswald buries his fingers in Jim’s hair and gasps.

“Jim,” he murmurs softly and urgently. “Jim, please.”

Jim lifts Oswald’s hips a little higher and guides his cock in slowly, and even despite the preparation Oswald is so tight Jim has to stop to let them both adjust, and his mind is completely empty, focused only on the heat. He pushes in a little deeper, brushing a sensitive spot inside that makes Oswald shudder and cry out. Jim smiles against his skin and pushes further, not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt, Oswald clutching at his shoulders, his mouth open in a helpless, voiceless cry.

Jim looks at him, and he’s so beautiful, trembling and moaning on Jim’s cock, and so, so tight. Jim rocks his hips slightly, making Oswald bite down on his lip and hiss, and Jim grins, excited by the effect, and leans in to kiss him again. This time their kiss is hungry, teeth scraping over the skin, breath stolen, and Jim rocks his hips again, and Oswald moves to meet him in turn, and they’re so in sync with each other as if they have been doing this forever. It doesn’t take them long to climax, Jim gripping Oswald’s hips hard as he bottoms out, Oswald scraping his nails over Jim’s back, unable to hold back as the shudders overtake them, their gasps and groans reaching crescendo as everything around them whites out.

Jim holds Oswald close after, as they pant, feeling at peace, all his worries and fears melted away in their shared body heat. He strokes Oswald’s soft hair languidly, listening to his gradually calming breath, and doesn’t notice drifting off to sleep.

 

They wake up together, still entwined, still holding on to each other. A flash of uncertainty shows up in Oswald’s eyes as he looks at Jim, but it is quickly erased by a smile and a kiss on his temple. Oswald relaxes then, pressing into Jim, nuzzling his neck. It’s so perfect Jim can’t remember ever feeling that good.

“I never expected something like this when I rode here,” Jim murmurs. “I guess I should be thankful for that ambush.”

“Trust a knight to be grateful for the attack and injury,” Oswald laughs. “But I suppose it wasn’t the worst possible outcome.”

“Wasn’t the worst?” Jim slaps Oswald’s butt playfully. “I think it’s the best. I met you.” A kiss on the cheek. “You saved my life.” Another one. “Healed me.” This time, on the nose. “Told me how to kill the dragon. It couldn’t be better, Oswald.”

There’s something despondent hiding in Oswald’s smile then, as he rises to kiss Jim in the corner of his mouth, and Jim won’t have it. He holds Oswald’s face between his palms and kisses him firmly, leaving no doubt of being alive.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jim says. “It’s going to be alright, you’ll see. Trust me.”

“I do,” Oswald whispers, kissing him back. “I do, Jim.”

 

After a while they leave the bed and wash up, and it’s a bit embarrassing, but Jim doesn’t regret a second of the previous night and makes certain Oswald doesn’t either, reassuring him with smiles and kisses and gentle touches all over. Oswald insists on using the salve on Jim’s wound again, and although it looks healed and doesn’t really hurt, Jim doesn’t object. He still needs all his chances, all his strength for what’s to come. And the pain is unnoticeable now, because Jim distracts himself with kissing Oswald, learning the shape of his face with his lips.

They make breakfast after, some eggs and smoked meat, and tea, and it’s as cozy and domestic as Jim had only allowed himself to dream sometimes. But to fully enjoy something like that, he has to deal with the dragon threat over the prince once and for all, so Jim settles at the table, checking his armour. The brigandine saved him from the worst blows of the ambushers, but they left it with cuts and scratches, and Jim gets to work on repairing it as best as he can with needle and thread, and then he oils the metal plates along with his sword. His equipment is crucial to his success, and first he has to spy on the dragon, to find out if it is possible to sneak up on the beast.

Oswald watches him, captivated, as if he’d never seen someone take care of their weapons. He comes close to Jim and runs his fingers over the blade.

“Careful,” Jim warns. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“It’s alright,” Oswald says, strangely. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Jim looks up at him, unable to read his expression. “I like your hands.”

This earns him a smile, and Jim reaches out to get a hold of Oswald’s palm when a grimace of pain contorts his features.

“Oswald? What’s wrong?” Jim asks, alarmed.

“No!” Oswald groans, his arms wrapped around his body, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, no! Not now! Oh Heavens, please not now!”

His voice is so desperate Jim springs to his feet, dropping the sword on the floor to hold Oswald, but he shakes Jim’s hands off and runs out of the house, stumbling with every step. Jim follows him in time to see something terrible, something unreal, something he had never wanted to see.

Oswald drops to the ground, powerless, his clothes seem to become a part of him, fused with his skin as it turns jet black, and a lump forms on his back before great leathery wings spring out of it. Oswald’s body grows bigger, changing shape, becoming serpentine and then Jim sees the black dragon rear its head and give a monstrous cry before it shakes its wings and flies off in the direction of the village nearby.

Jim doesn’t notice himself falling limply to his knees. Oswald? How was that possible, for a human, for Oswald to be the dragon? And if he knew that was possible, Jim would’ve noticed the signs, surely. Like the way Oswald limped, like the way his hair seemed to stand up on his head, forming a kind of crest, and the fear in his eyes when Jim asked him…

Oh no.

Jim asked him how to kill him. The dragon, sure, but Jim didn’t know… and Oswald did. And Oswald told him.

What was Oswald even thinking when he did? Jim feels anger well up inside him. Did Oswald want Jim to kill him? Or was he luring him into trust, to strike when Jim least expected? That’s the man who’d outdone the Falcones in their own game, a lord of a treacherous realm. But it doesn’t seem true to Jim, with the way Oswald acted. It was… too real. The affection Jim felt in the way Oswald touched him was too real.

Jim stands up, staggering, and walks back to the house. He sees the sword just lying there on the floor, where it fell from his hands as he reached for Oswald. He picks it up, revulsion coursing through him, but he finishes oiling it before putting it back into the scabbard. His turmoil aside, the habit of caring for his equipment is too deeply ingrained.

Oswald. What was that, even? He cried out so miserably, begging for it to stop, and Jim can’t help thinking there’s some kind of vile magic involved. What else could move a person to transform into a murderous dragon? And the way he was shocked when Jim told him what the stop to that was, that too couldn’t be faked.

This is all too much, and Jim feels weak in a way no injury could weaken him before. This is something his strength and his steel can do nothing about, either outcome too horrible.

He can’t sacrifice Bruce. It’s out of the question, loyalty or not. If the prince dies that way, Gotham is doomed, its people forever broken, burdened by this crime. Gotham which he came to love would be destroyed.

He can’t murder Oswald either. It feels strange, they’re practically strangers, but, but… Jim has never felt this way even with Barbara. Oswald feels like home after a long march, Oswald feels like water in the scorching sun. Jim wants to tell him what he makes him feel, and running a sword through his heart is a very poor way of confessing.

And Jim doesn’t want to die too. It’s the least of his concerns though, he knows with surprising certainty that Oswald wouldn’t harm him. That Oswald, too, feels something for him, and they could make it, could work with it, could have a shot at happiness.

Just, you know, get this pesky business of bloody dragons and sacrificed hearts out of the way, eh.

Jim cradles his head. It seems like there’s no way out, no escape. Escape? Maybe he and Oswald could? But no, Oswald didn’t seem in control of himself when he transformed… 

Heavens, they need help. Someone who can tell how to reverse this magic, fix it. Jim is prepared to do whatever it takes, if only it meant the people he cares about would live.

Jim spends the day in a haze, going through his training routine now that his wounds are healed, eating just to quell the growling stomach, cleaning up after. He needs to figure it out, where to go for help, but he also needs Oswald, to see him, to know he’s alright. What if he’s not? What if some guy with dumb luck figures it out, pierces the dragon’s heart never knowing he’s killing another human being, with twinkling intelligent eyes and gentle hands? Jim crushes a bowl he was washing at the thought, his hand gripping too hard. The shards burst everywhere and Jim sighs and goes to get the broom. It’s a miracle he didn’t cut himself, he thinks gloomily. No new injuries when he might need to act fast and use his strength. He throws the shards out and turns to the house when a shadow passes over him with a whoosh of wind, and he hears a loud thump and flapping of the wings, and then Oswald transforms back, lying limp on the ground, blood trickling down his head.

Jim rushes to his side immediately and gathers him in his arms. He noticed it yesterday night, but Oswald is so thin, so light, it takes almost no effort at all to lift him. Jim carries him into the house and puts him on the bed, and examines the bleeding forehead. It’s only a surface scratch, not deep at all, just a small cut in the skin. Jim cleans it, washing away the blood, and then Oswald’s eyelids flutter and he opens his eyes.

“Jim?” He asks, and it sounds so broken, so desperate, Jim is almost moved to tears.

“I’m here, Oswald,” he answers, squeezing his hand.

“Heavens, Jim. I never wished for you to know,” Oswald whispers. “I wished you didn’t know and then it could be over and you…”

“What, lived happily ever after, having killed you?” Jim interrupts, his voice ringing, angry. “Never knowing where you’ve disappeared to? I’m stubborn, Oswald. I would’ve searched for you all over.”

Oswald locks his eyes on Jim’s, his gaze burning, searching, as if he wants to ask, but decides against it and turns away.

“It’s moot now anyway. You know.”

“Yes. Please tell me how that happened. I don’t believe you were born a dragon.”

“No,” Oswald laughs with bitterness. “I wasn’t.”

He sits up and rubs his hands over his face. Jim watches him, wary of the change, and not daring to offer comfort.

“I got cursed, soon after I became the ruler of the Falcones realm. If that wasn’t enough of an incentive, this magic leash on me… the wizard also kidnapped my mother.”

Oswald’s eyes are dry, and sad, so sad. That does it. Oswald can push him away if he wants, but Jim can’t just leave him alone, and he sits beside him and draws Oswald into his arms. He tenses, surprised, but soon melts into Jim’s embrace, holding on.

“What did he curse you for?” Jim asks quietly, stroking his hair.

“I have no idea, Jim. I am not fully myself when turned, and barely have control. The spell is too powerful, one of Elder magic. I am compelled to transform and lay waste to the villages, to kill people indiscriminately,” Oswald grips Jim’s shoulder, burying his face into his chest. “The only thing working in my favour is that for the spell to have that kind of power, the wizard had to weave our names into it. And when I learn who and where Theo Galavan is, I will kill him,” he says, his voice cold and resolute, and Jim could be taken aback by that alone, and yet…

“Did you say Galavan?”

Oswald raises his head to look at Jim, and nods.

“He is the court astrologist of Gotham… the one who said we had to sacrifice the prince.”

“Ah,” Oswald says, his gaze firm. “So that’s why. The rotten bastard!”

He tears himself away from Jim and begins to pace the room. Jim stands up as well, watching him change in mere moments from sad and despaired to alert and focused, and it’s beyond fascinating.

“Jim, oh, Jim! I take it all back, it couldn’t be better, just as you said,” Oswald speaks, gesticulating excitedly. “I know where he is now. It means I can save Mother, he must keep her close by in order to always have leverage over me!” Oswald stops, looking at Jim. “Heavens, Jim. I almost forgot what hope was.”

Jim grins at him. “At your service, my lord.”

 

They spend the rest of the day laying out the plan, Jim providing information about the castle and its passages, and what he knows about master Galavan’s duties and his servants. It could be bordering on treason, but Jim trusts Oswald implicitly. Harvey would call him a fool for sure.

Oswald shows his true colours, pacing the room again, thinking out loud. For every step of his own he anticipates countermeasures, and comes up with at least two contingencies, all of it spilling out of his head in a surprisingly short amount of time. Jim had only seen something like that once before, in the camp of his third commander, who ended up a lord of a small realm after a crushingly successful campaign and inadvertently taught Jim the intricacies of small-scale military operations. That was one of the few commanders that actually survived their ambitions, too. The rumours of the role baron Cobblepot played in the take-over seem to be true, Jim thinks, not that he doubted that, but to actually see them confirmed was somewhat staggering.

“It’s all just thinking, Jim,” Oswald says, halting in front of the hearth after another inspiration. “No plan ever goes the way it’s supposed to. One thing is certain, though. We’re going to need help.”

“Why?” Jim asks. “I bet if it comes to that, I can take Galavan out.”

“I think you might have your hands full. Let’s face it, Jim, I am a liability in this. As soon as Galavan knows what’s up, he’ll compel me to turn and most probably attack you. I don’t know enough Elder magic to help you stop me. And we’ll need someone to take my mother to safety while we sort that out.”

Jim comes up to him and takes his hand. “How do you propose I stop you then? I can’t hurt you, Oswald,” he says, looking into his eyes.

“I am a lot harder to hurt when I turn, Jim,” Oswald replies, serious. “In fact, I’m terrified I might kill you.”

“I know you won’t,” Jim kisses him on the cheek, but Oswald distances himself a bit, looking distraught.

“How do you know? I tell you, I am not in control of myself, Jim. It’s like… I watch as the body moves on its own.”

“I just know, Oswald,” Jim says, circling Oswald’s waist with his arms, bringing him closer. “You won’t. You’ll try your best not to.” Jim sneaks in a kiss between words. “About that magic. You said you don’t know enough, but maybe what you do know can help?”

“Dragons are of Elder magic, and it is the only kind that affects them. But I only know the enhancing spell, Jim, and it doesn’t have a permanent effect on humans, just a short spurt. It also hurts when used, because we are not of Elder magic.”

“A bit like your salve then,” Jim grins. Oswald nods. “Well. If we need help, I know who to ask.”

 

They go to bed that night still keyed up, their minds still working, but then Jim’s hand ends up on Oswald’s hip and he pulls him closer, mouthing at his neck, and Oswald gives a pleased sigh and strokes Jim’s cock with his hand, running his thumb over the tip occasionally, and Jim is lost, coming undone under his touch in seconds. In a moment of clarity he reaches for Oswald’s erection, and they bring each other to climax easily, surely, as if they had been long-time lovers, and it still blows Jim’s mind. Falling asleep holding Oswald in his arms is equally delightful, as is waking up to his smile.

In the morning they get ready and pack up, and walk to the nearest village where they trade some of Oswald’s coins for a horse. They wanted two, to cover the most ground in the shortest time, but no luck. Oswald ends up riding in front of Jim as they gallop through the terrain until they reach a town, where they change the horse and manage to get a second one, and, after a brief rest, they’re on the road again.

They make good time, the two of them. Jim didn’t expect Oswald to be a good rider, but he manages a fast pace despite his bad leg. They don’t attempt gallop anymore though, too taxing on both them and the horses. The stays in the inns are a lot more nice with the two of them as well, definitely beating Jim’s solitary nights in drafty barns. They make it to Gotham by the end of the fourth day. 

 

Concealed by the cape, Jim stands behind the prince’s throne in the second throne room, the one with the balcony and an open view of the sky. Master Galavan is looking at the stars, pretending to meditate on the stars’ message, to divine a solution, - and now Jim knows it’s just a pretense, and can’t believe how blind he, and all of them, had been. Galavan looks way too smug when he announces the stars’ message remains the same, that the prince has to give his heart to the dragon or the rampages will not cease, clearly relishing the idea of the teenage monarch dying for a lie, hated by his subjects for taking this long.

“Do it again, Master Galavan,” Jim hears the chamberlain’s, Master Pennyworth’s, voice, stern as always, harbouring no love for the deliverer of such grave news. “Read the stars once more.”

“But Your Grace, I have done it twice only this night,” Galavan says, and there’s a note of impatience in his words, and how dare he.

“I request you to do it again, Master Galavan,” Bruce speaks then, calm, controlled. As if he doesn’t know. “Third time’s the charm, as they say.”

“Yes, Sire,” Galavan inclines his head and turns to the balcony once more, lighting candles in the tripods around the magic circle.

The silence of the night is interrupted then by two loud hawk whistles. Jim lets out a sigh of relief. Their hunch was right, Oswald’s mother was indeed concealed in the astrologist’s tower all this time, and the whistles signaled that Harvey and Oswald got her out.

“Hawks? At night?” Galavan says, incredulous, and whips to face the throne. Jim doesn’t like the look on his face one bit, and steps in front, to be ready to protect the prince.

“Must be a new breed, don’t you think so, Sire?” Master Pennyworth speaks, standing in front, along with Jim.

Galavan looks at the both of them, anger flickering in his eyes, and then he grins broadly, insanely.

“I will not be denied! I will claim my rightful place, I will kill the vile usurper!” He cries, and then his voice gets deeper, booming across the throne room as he incantates what can only be a spell. Jim rushes towards him, his sword unsheathed, but a force pushes him back before he can lay a strike on Galavan. Jim tries to push through, to no avail, and starts an incantation of his own, hoping against all hope he remembers it right.

Jim focuses on Galavan, on his own intent, as Oswald told him to do, and the spell forms, it hits Galavan despite the barrier, making him writhe in pain and choke on his words. Jim charges him again, but it’s too late - Galavan collects himself in time and pushes him away with another barrier, straightening up; and then a great black shape looms in front of the balcony, the dragon climbing into the throne room, swift and deadly.

Out of the corner of his eye Jim sees Bruce being tugged away by the chamberlain and that’s one less worry on his mind, but Galavan speaks in arcane tongue now, and the dragon trains his eyes on Jim, his pupils narrowing, and he starts stalking towards him, menacing and unstoppable like a great wave.

Jim’s first instinct is a defensive stance, sword at the ready, but his instincts are wrong here, he knows, and hesitates. ‘I am not in control’, ‘I can only watch’, ‘I am terrified I might kill you’ flash through Jim’s mind as he tries to see Oswald in the dragon’s eyes, and there’s nothing there, just haze, emptiness and pain. But it’s Oswald, Jim knows it, and Jim cannot attack him.

He stops moving, dropping his sword to the floor. It clanks so loudly on the stone he winces at the sound. He hears both Bruce and Master Pennyworth calling him, warning him, but their voices are so distant they might not be here at all. Jim reaches his hands out to Oswald and stays still, looking into his eyes the whole time.

The dragon’s head is so close now Jim can feel his hot breath, see every edge of every scale, and the time stops. The dragon closes his eyes and bumps Jim lightly with his nose, and Jim knows that everything is going to be alright. Oswald is there, and he is in control.

“No!” Galavan howls, furious. “Kill him, KILL HIM, I command you!”

Oswald whips back to him, swatting with his great claws at Galavan. No magic barrier could protect him from that, and he collapses on the floor, coughing, blood spilling all over.

“Curse you!” He gargles through the blood. “Curse you! It will not stop with my death! The dragon still requires a human heart, willingly given! Curse you…”

Galavan stills, his last breath leaving him. The dragon looks at him, and then turns to Jim again, despaired, and this time Jim doesn’t hesitate at the slightest. He walks to Oswald and puts his hands on his head, stroking the scales.

“If you need the heart, take mine,” Jim says, closing his eyes. “I give it to you willingly with the rest of me, Oswald.”

He feels warm, and something shifts around him, and then there’s trembling and a rasped sound, and then Oswald is back in his arms, human and alive, burying his face in the crook of Jim’s neck and holding him tight, so tight, and Jim feels tears on his skin and he can barely hold back his own.

The songs and stories were true all along. No magic could stop a loving heart.

 

“You have done me a great service, Baron Cobblepot,” Bruce speaks in his royal voice, when they’ve all composed themselves and servants took away Galavan’s corpse and scrubbed away the blood. “I am indebted to you, and would like to offer you a reward.”

“Your Majesty,” Oswald speaks, his hand hot and firm in Jim’s against all protocol and manners of conduct in royal presence. If it was up to Jim he’d be holding him in his arms anyway, so they’re being quite restrained at the moment, all things considered. “I ask but one thing.”

“Please name it, Baron.”

“I ask for you to release your knight from his oath of fealty so he may choose his allegiance anew,” Oswald squeezes his hand, as if doubting Jim would want that, and looks at him with uncertainty and hope, so much hope.

To hell with manners and protocol, Jim thinks, and kisses Oswald full on his lips, startling a sound out of him.

“If you could also arrange a wedding, Sire, that would be great,” Jim says, turning to face Bruce, who looks way too amused by all of this, and it’s a good look on him after all the strain of the past months, some colour in his cheeks and a twinkle in his eyes.

“How could I refuse such hearts,” Bruce says. “Sir Gordon, if you would bear to come forward for a moment.”

Jim looks at Oswald and parts from him reluctantly, walking to the throne and lowering himself on one knee.

“Sire.”

Bruce stands up, and places his hand on top of Jim’s head in a ceremonial gesture.

“Sir Gordon, you are hereby released from your oath to the Kingdom and royal family of Gotham, so you may offer your allegiance to whom you deem worthy.” He removes his hand, its small weight also lifting Jim’s duty off his shoulders. “Please, rise.”

Jim stands up, looking at Bruce, and the prince smiles at him. “I pray for your happiness, dear friend.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jim smiles and bows and returns to Oswald’s side to never let go of him again.

 

The wedding takes place the next day, Jim in his best blue outfit, Oswald in a matching, but darker colour, courtesy of the prince who is a guest of honour and a witness to their vows. Oswald’s mother, an odd little woman, still shaken up by her period of captivity and sudden rescue and festivities, but elated to see her son alive and human, dances with Harvey and his friends. She is a little bit wary of Jim, but he smiles reassuringly at her and promises he would do his best to make her son happy. It will take time until she warms up to him, Jim knows, but they have the time now. They have all the time in the world.

This thought doesn’t stop them from retiring to their rooms as early as possible, and Jim ends up pinning Oswald to the door as soon as they shut it. The ceremonial kisses were chaste, brief, this one is not, it’s open-mouthed and hot, their lips hungry, tongues battling in a fight no one can lose. Jim’s hands slide over Oswald’s sides, and then he drops to his knees, pushing Oswald’s breeches and underwear down to get a hold of his cock, already half-hard. Jim slides his tongue along the length, licking at the slit, circling the head. Oswald is reduced to whimpers even before Jim takes him fully in his mouth, even before he starts sucking in earnest, and then Oswald’s hands are buried in Jim’s hair as his hips jolt and he spills into his mouth with barely a warning. Jim grins around him, sucking and swallowing those last bits, before pulling off and wiping at his mouth.

Oswald looks delicious, all flushed up, his eyes glazed as he looks down at Jim, and then he pulls him up and kisses him, moaning into his mouth as his hands desperately try to get Jim out of his clothes. Jim chuckles and helps him, and they strip as they stumble on the way to their bed, shedding pieces of their outfits all over the floor. Jim pushes Oswald on the bed then, climbing on top of him, peppering his neck and shoulders and his stomach with kisses.

“Jim,” Oswald breathes, stroking his hair. “Jim… my chivalrous knight… my saviour…”

Jim slides up to kiss him again, biting at Oswald’s lips, catching his moans.

“I’m pretty sure we saved each other, love,” Jim grins in between the kisses, and then Oswald pauses and smiles shyly.

“You really don’t remember, Jim?” he asks, running his fingers tenderly over Jim’s arm, making him shiver.

“Remember what?”

“You saved me… two years ago, Jim, at the Gotham harbour.”

“What?” Jim props himself up on his arms, looking at Oswald, completely bewildered. “I would’ve remembered you!”

“I’m pretty sure you saved too many people to remember each one, Jim,” Oswald smiles. “And you didn’t have the time to look at us, at me.”

“Two years ago?” Jim asks, and Oswald nods. Two years ago was a particularly hard time in Gotham, with the brigands and robbers roaming the streets even in broad daylight. The knights have been patrolling the streets day and night, getting more fighting experience than anyone ever wanted. But the scuffle at the harbour… yes, Jim remembers it now. There was a small party of outsiders, about three of them, and they were attacked by a group of eight bandits. Jim happened to be patrolling the area with Harvey and Alvarez, and they crashed into the bandits as soon as they saw what was going on.

“That was me with Countess Mooney and her servant. And the attack was not just robbery, it was an assassination attempt staged by Duke Maroni, then enemy of King Falcone,” Oswald smiles. “Sordid business all around.”

Jim was separated from his fellow knights and ended up in front of the attacked party, parrying the blows of bandits aimed at them as much as at himself. In one particularly lucky move he managed to cut a crossbow bolt aimed at the head of one of the attacked men as he was swinging his sword in attack, and then the reinforcements showed up and the bandits ran, Jim and his knights following them.

“The way you fought to protect us… it stayed with me, Jim. Such passion and strength. I’m afraid I fell for you that day, silly as it may seem,” Oswald looks at him, embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise when I found you that day.”

Jim grins and kisses him briefly on the mouth. “I’ll say it again, Oswald,” he says, his lips never leaving Oswald’s after all. “I’m so happy you did.”

He licks into Oswald’s mouth then, exploring it, as Oswald melts under his hands. Jim rolls them onto the side, and strokes Oswald’s back gently, between the shoulderblades, tracing the line of his spine until he reaches his rear. He squeezes and kneads the buttocks, as Oswald presses flush to him and sucks on his neck, leaving a mark. It stings in the best possible way and Jim moans out loud, and turns on his back.

“Get on top of me,” he says, rasping.

Oswald complies, swinging his legs over and straddling Jim’s hips. “You really like this, don’t you Jim?”

“It’s the best view,” Jim smirks and slides his hands over Oswald’s shoulders, trailing the shape of his body all the way to his hips. “And I can reach everything…” To emphasize the point Jim gets a hold of Oswald’s cock with one hand and reaches the other to his opening, touching it lightly. “Don’t you like it?”

“Love it, Jim,” Oswald manages, circling his arms around Jim’s shoulders. “Please, more…”

Jim sits up, locking their lips together, and gives Oswald’s cock a few more strokes, before using the fluids to wet his fingers and pressing them to Oswald’s entrance. Oswald presses his hips back, craving the contact, showing how much he wants Jim’s fingers inside, and Jim can only comply. It’s still so impossibly tight, and Jim bites his lip working through resistance, Oswald trembling against him and it does such incredible things to Jim he never wants to stop.

Oswald is the one to take the initiative then, he pushes Jim to lay on his back again and guides his cock inside on his own, bracing himself with his palm on Jim’s chest. Jim’s hands grip his hips, slowing him down, making the descent so much more smooth and leisurely, and Oswald keeps biting on his lip and still can’t suppress the moans. Once in, Jim waits for them to adjust, but only a little, before starting to move slowly.

“Jim…” Oswald hisses through his teeth, and grips Jim’s arms. “Harder.”

Jim groans and obeys, driving in with more strength, more passion, and they kiss again, hungry, needy for each other, their skin burning hot and it’s still barely enough. Jim pushes forward, and Oswald ends up on his back while Jim pounds him, the rhythm quick and steady, slamming hard, with Oswald crying out at each push, his voice raw and still demanding more. Jim groans Oswald’s name, bottoming out one last time, Oswald’s hands grabbing at his shoulders, and they kiss through the shudders of their orgasm, claiming each other with every last bit of breath they have left.

They lay after, side by side, breathing heavily, their fingers linked together. Jim lets out a small laugh, and Oswald hums at him, curious.

“Nothing. It’s just, it all began when I set out to strike the dragon’s heart. Turns out I got it after all.”

“Oh, Jim,” Oswald murmurs tenderly. “You’ve had the dragon’s heart all along.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The beef and wine stew they make was based off [this](http://medievalcookery.com/recipes/stewetbeef.html) medieval recipe.
> 
> Just in case you're interested :)  
> A _brigandine_ is a type of light armour, made from thick cloth or leather and lined with metal plates.  
>  A _gambeson_ is a thick padded/quilted jacket worn under armour to protect the wearer from contact with hard armour bits. In some cases it could serve as armour on its own. Gambesons were usually knee-length and could also double as winter coats.  
>  _Braies_ are medieval underwear, could be a sort of long pants, could be looking like loose boxer shorts. The braies mentioned in the story are those short ones. :)


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